


Bunny

by sootonthecarpet



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst, Apologies, Canon Related, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Coming Out, Eventual Romance, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Foreshadowing, Gender Dysphoria, Haircuts, Happy Ending, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kissing, Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Name Changes, POV First Person, Post-Coital Cuddling, Suicide Attempt, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootonthecarpet/pseuds/sootonthecarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Since I was very young I had felt that something was quite wrong with me, or at any rate with what the world thought of me. It took me a little while to place my finger on it exactly, but as soon as I had done so, I confided in my friend, Raffles.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bunny

**Author's Note:**

> Skye's present for the Raffles Secret Santa! You can tell it's a present because I stopped before the Spion Kop bits.

Since I was very young I had felt that something was quite wrong with me, or at any rate with what the world thought of me. It took me a little while to place my finger on it exactly, but as soon as I had done so, I confided in my friend, Raffles, as I had yet to experience treachery from anybody and had no reason to fear. I was, I think, about eight years old, and he would have been twelve. 

“AJ, do you think you’d mind calling me Harry or something?”

“Harry?” He looked confused. “That’s not at all like Josephine, is it?”

“Well, no. I didn’t want it to be.”

“Are you going on the run?”

I laughed. “No, that’s not it. But I don’t like Josephine. I don’t think I’m supposed to be this…”

“This?”

“Josephine Worsley… when I grow up I’m going to run away.”

“And be Harry? Hary what?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not going to grow up to be a woman like the other girls will.”

“What is it to be? It is rather difficult to grow up to be, for instance, a cat—although, I suppose you could be a cat-burglar, which is rather close…”

“AJ!” I exclaimed, laughing. He took my tiny hand and waited patiently as I found my words. “I’m not going to grow up to be a woman because I’m going to run away from home and be a man instead. I can’t be a boy because my parents will know, but once I’m old enough, I’ll leave.”

AJ frowned. “It must be rather difficult to change one’s sex…”

“I’ve thought it through considerably, and it seems a matter of never being undressed around others, nor marrying.”

“You would rather be a man than marry? This _is_ serious,” he said, leaning closer. “All little children dream of weddings.”

I laughed and pushed him away. “No, AJ, I’d rather be a bachelor than the richest, prettiest wife in the world, married to the handsomest of husbands!”

He laughed. “You’d be hard pressed to find a husband, man that you are. Though this does explain why you always took my clothes when you were younger.”

I blushed. “I must have looked very silly. They were much too large.”

“Mainly I couldn’t see why you preferred my shirts to your dresses when they were both of about the same length.”

We laughed—he in amusement, and I in agreement.

He always did call me Harry from then on, or refrained completely from the use of my name if our parents were present. I wasn’t seeing as much of him as I had before he went off to school, but his letters were regular.

As I matured, it grew more difficult to live with myself—with the unfortunate form my body insisted on taking, but more than that with talk of womanhood and marrying and oh, Josephine, how pretty you look in your new frock, and corsets laced ever tighter with the intention of accentuating that which nightly I did my best to will away. But I had AJ, and with him as a friend, it seemed for so long that nothing in the world was so bad that he could not aid in negating it. He always wrote at the start of the letters, ‘Dear Harry’, and I kept his kindest examples of writing in a valued locked box below my bed. I confided to him nearly all that struck me as most terrible in life. The first gap in our correspondence came when I fell ill at the age of thirteen. It was a fever, I suppose brought on by the growing stress of living.

It was not easy to keep myself cheery when left all alone and with an alarming temperature, and by the time I was well again I had resolved to have done with myself. I couldn’t bear the thought of AJ’s reaction, so I sent no final letter and hoped he would assume I had moved to India or something of the sort. That night I attempted to hang myself from a chandelier.

It did not work out very much as I had planned. For a little while there was the general impression that everything had gone correctly, but shortly the chandelier detached itself from the ceiling and it and I fell to the ground. I somehow managed to avoid serious injury by it. I have the vague impression that I pulled off the rope, curled up on the floor, and choked and sobbed into my hands until my parents, concerned by the noise, arrived to investigate. 

They somehow fell under the impression that I had changed my mind voluntarily, rather than failed, and that it was only a lingering depression from my illness that made me do such a thing. I was too incoherent, between sobs and the ache of my half crushed throat, to correct them. After a few days had passed (I was sedated for a little while) I wrote to my friend, explaining what I had done and what came of it. It was just at the end of the term for him. The next I heard of things was that AJ’s father had invited me to come stay with them during AJ’s vacation, and after that it was AJ himself in my room. 

“How did you convince them?” I asked him as soon as we were alone, but he hardly heard me. He was pale and had all but flown to my side upon the closing of the door, and took my hand. “Let me see your throat,” he said weakly, for I had taken to wearing a muffler to avoid showing my healing bruises to my rather sensitive parents (mother, especially, was inclined to bursting into tears of gratitude at the slightest reminder that I was, in fact, alive, and her weeping was very distressing to me). I unwound the muffler carefully, and he rested the tips of his fingers on my chin and cheekbone. He was gazing down at me and I watched the colour gradually returning to his cheeks. 

“AJ?” I asked, daring at length to interrupt the solemn, almost religious silence. He gave a long, slow sigh and sat on the edge of my bed, now fully cupping my face.

“Well, I’ve told my parents that my schoolmate, Harry Manders, wants to come and stay over the break, and I’ve told your parents, in Father’s handwriting, that Portia is so very worried about your recent illness and is quite certain the change of scene would do you good, and that Father will be sending me along to pick you up.”

I gasped. “Harry Manders? You mean I am to—”

“Well, yes. I think I have arranged things rather well. You’ll see the last few stages of the plan in a little while. Do pack your favourite books and things. You needn’t take a change of clothes.”

Portia was Raffles’s sister. She had initially been tolerant of me so long as Raffles and I left her alone in our mischief, and gradually she had grown to like me somewhat, until she was editing my poor attempts at storytelling and smiling over my poetry, most of which was about how the trees looked in the sunlight or something of the sort. Now I found her dear brother helping me out of bed and into something I might travel in. We left the house, making for the train station; but to my surprise we took a sudden detour into a small patch of woods in which we had often played as children. He had hidden a trunk of clothing there, alongside a few other things. 

“I’m sorry it’s so cold, but it was the only way,” he said sympathetically as I quickly undressed, with no thought of decency. “It’ll be a shoddy job, but you’ll be concealed under the travelling cloak, and I can help you more at home.” He had to aid me in fastening the trousers, as the method was a little unfamiliar, but they seemed to fit me better than any gown in the world (although I know quite well that they were too long in the leg and snug in the hips—he had apparently snuck into town from school and bought all my clothing at various pawn shops, merely guessing at what would fit me). When I was quite warmly dressed, and my bruises concealed beneath a high collar and layers of lapels, he took a pair of scissors from his pocket. “Your hair, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” I gasped, untucking it from the collar of the cloak. 

The first and last haircut he had ever given was, of course, rather pathetic. Some bits of it were much too long, and some rather too short, but after a long time he made it tolerable. I felt nothing but smug satisfaction as I kicked frozen dirt over the long locks of gold hair on the forest floor. 

“But what will we say to my parents…?”

“That you met a woman who had gone bald quite too early, and, overcome with sympathy, cut all your beautiful hair off straight away to have it made into a wig for her.” His arm descended around my shoulders warmly, and I blushed.

The shoes I was wearing were much too big for me, and walking in them was a bit of a challenge, for they were very different than my previous experiences. We made it to the station alright, though, and were soon settled contentedly into a compartment. I received a few strange looks, but only a few, and I studied my companion’s posture carefully and did my best to mimic it. 

“Portia knows,” he told me, patting my hand. “Of course she’d recognize you. But father won’t, it’s been a long time and you look much different with your hair gone.” He was regarding me a little peculiarly, in a manner I did not understand. “There’s another thing,” he said with a little grin. “At school, many of us get nicknames, and, of course, as you’re a younger student who I’ve taken under my wing, well…” He grinned a little further. “I may be calling you ‘Bunny’ rather more often than Harry.”

“Bunny?” I gasped, not exactly displeased. 

“Yes, I think it rather suits you.”

I turned my face to the window and regarded my reflection. With my small nose, round ears, and newly fluffy shortened hair, it did seem to fit me well. After a few moments, I grinned back at him. “Bunny it is, then,” I agreed. He looked immensely relieved. Since that day, I do not think I have heard him address me as anything else. 

Meeting Raffles’s father in my new appearance was nerve-wracking, and afterwards I had to lie down briefly in the guest room in which I was staying. Raffles held my hand most soothingly.

“We had better get dressed for dinner,” he said eventually. “There are a few things which must be seen to, as you will not have a cloak this time.”

I glanced nervously at my chest, which, though not ample, was still a little notable under my waistcoat. “Have you bandages…?”

“Of course,” he said with a little smile. “We must be careful, I don’t wish to impair your breathing any…” His fingertips trailed lightly over the very underside of my jaw, and I gasped. He drew them away as if he had touched hot coals. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said at once, looking incredibly sympathetic, at which I shook my head.

“They were cold,” I said, although it did not seem to me to be the reason for my reaction.

He nodded, satisfied that he had done me no harm.

I needed his assistence in securing the bandages, some of which went more loosely around my waist to hide its relative slimness. (This grew less of a concern later in life, as I began to gain a little weight in that area.) He fetched Portia to give me a last looking over, and, to my initial humiliation, she burst into giggles, something which I heard from her much more scarecely than I did from her brother, for she was very stern. At this laughter, I flushed angrily and clenched my hands into fists.

“I’m—I’m sorry—oh, Harry—it’s that haircut!” she said, getting herself under control. “Oh, AJ, you’ve done a terrible job of things! Give me those scissors, give them here!” She cried, reaching for his pockets indiscriminately. There was a brief, good-natured squabble, at which I couldn’t help but laugh in turn, until at last, Portia had me seated before a mirror with a pillowcase wrapped snugly around my shoulders. I watched my reflection raptly as she evened the edges and reshaped it and, at last, swept it to one side in a smooth part that felt absolutely glorious.

“There, that’s much more suitable,” she said, with a little teasing glare at her brother. I rose, and blushed as she helped me into a jacket and personally straightened my lapels. Still, despite this positively _sisterly_ treatment, I felt immensely more confident going down to dinner. Fortunately, AJ did most of my talking for me.

Those few weeks at the Raffles’s house were the most comfortable I had felt with myself since early childhood, and I was sorry to see them end. As I was in my guest room, taking a last look at myself atired properly, AJ entered the room and closed it quietly. 

“Hello, AJ,” I said, raising my eyebrows, but always glad to see him. He stepped up and took my hand. He looked practically nervous! “What is it?” I asked.

“Ah, that’s to say, I mean,” he mumbled, and bent just enough to press his lips to mine. I gasped a little and started back from him.

“AJ, but—you know I’m not a girl…!”

“Of course I do,” he said, blushing dark red. “That’s, that was rather my point, uhh,” he turned to leave and I caught his wrist.

“You mean you’re— _like that?_ ” I asked hesitantly. He nodded. I had never seen him so flustered, and it was charming despite my surprise.

“I hope you don’t mind it,” he mumbled shyly, then all but dashed from the room, leaving me to stand there in utter confusion. 

When he saw me off at the train station, he showed almost no sign of his earlier behaviour, although he was standing a little too stiffly and looked just a little too pink. I squeezed his hand before leaving him, and he gave a weak, warm smile.

The next eight years of my life passed awkwardly, my efforts to conceal my excursions in the proper presentation growing ever more complicated as they grew ever more frequent. At last I moved out when I was twenty-one, just a little after the death of my beloved father. I received the news of my mother’s death a year later. I met Miss Carruthers at a library, which I was perusing in a frail effort towards distraction. She offered to come with me to visit mother’s grave. I declined the offer, not wanting her to see the obvious disparity between ‘Worsley’ and ‘Manders’ (a name which I had kept), but she saw me off at the train station.

Standing there, a strange man, not a member of the family, before the graves of someone else’s father and mother, a Jeremy and Alice Worsley, was strange. I felt small and cold and guilty, and strangely triumphant. 

When I returned, I boldly sent a letter asking Miss Carruthers to dinner.

We had a romance for some time. I loved her dearly, and would have married her in a heartbeat if I could, but when she began to speak of such things, I grew sadder and sadder in her presence. I locked myself in my rooms and drank, and at last told her that, because I was poor and troubled, we could not be married. It was not a lie. I visited Raffles soon after that, and told him of my troubles. We began to see each other more regularly again, something we had not done since he graduated from school. At last I gambled away what remained of my money and came to him, as desperate as I had ever been. He was more shaken than I have previously written, although his subsequent trickery of me was no exageration. 

For a while all was wonerful, but the changes in him as he had grown shocked me absolutely, and my new life of criminality was one with which I had difficulty coming to terms. Though at last I had nearly accepted it, my companion’s callous refusal to let me into his mind grew too much for me to bear. It fractured our relationship rather badly; indeed, I somewhat attempted to take my leave of him. He seemed to still be as much concerned with my wellbeing as he was with his own, and had an understandably difficult time understanding my desire to break things off. We saw each other infrequently. At last he invited me off on a grand robbery, which he undertook mainly out of egotism. I might have enjoyed being with him in close quarters, but he seemed to have found better company. There were more than a few nights I found myself alone in the room, and wept into his pillows because I could not stop myself. He never suspected, for I made sure to wash my face. 

At the end of it all, he abandoned me.

I have no wish to elaborate upon what followed, save that it involved surrendering the total remainder of my money, and more than a little that was not mine, to a third party whom I shall not name, so that it would be most unlawfuly arranged for me to avoid prison. 

The time that followed was undoubtedly the worst portion of my life. Everything that had been vaguely enjoyable about crime was gone when I was alone. I would find myself longing for someone to whom to explain my success, or missing the press of a reassuring hand on my shoulder should I be frightened. Most nights I either cried or I drank, if I had the money for it. I had dared to hope, for a time, that Raffles was alive, but with every month that passed I doubted it further and missed him more.

When I saw his face again—when I recognized that it belonged to him—anger did not cross my mind. Indeed, nothing did. I dropped to my knees beside the bed and I kissed him, over and over. His mouth and his eyelids and his face and forehead and his ears and the corner of his jaw. I clung to his hands as if I were drowning. When he dared to meet my eyes, I think I was weeping.

“Bunny,” he said hoarsely.

“You know not what it has been without you…!”

“Oh, Bunny…”

I kissed him again for a few long moments, hating the separation of even a few inches. He wrenched his hands from my grip, and for a few moments I was afraid he would push me away. Words cannot express my gratitude that he only wrapped his arms around my body and pulled me close. He pressed his face to my shoulder. I had not the impression that he wept, but where his head had rested was damp when we parted.

He took my face in his hands as I gazed at him steadily.

“Would you truly believe me if I said that I was sorry…?” he asked, hesitant and tender.

“I don’t know,” I said.

He swallowed and nodded, and looked faintly pained. “I’m sorry,” he said. His mouth pressed to mine and he said it to me once more. It was what he said between when he whispered for me to come closer and when he began to kiss my throat. He said it over again and again as he undressed me, and he said it in faint moans after. It was what he told me even at the height of bliss, and he was whispering it into my ear as I fell asleep in his arms.

For a little while when I woke in the evening semidarkness, I thought it might have been a dream. 

“Raffles,” I called gently, and he started awake beside me. I rolled to face him and edged nearer, unused to and a little awed by the press of bare skin against my own. He looked up at me with an expression I had never seen before and have not seen since save once, amazed and quiet and full of more tender affection than I believed his soul could hold. I slid my hand into his and squeezed it reassuringly. “Come on, Raffles,” I said softly, smiling at him. “We’d better eat.”

**Author's Note:**

> Raffles pocketed a lock of Bunny's hair in the forest, but he never let on so I couldn't write about it. I might end up elaborating on what happens post-No Sinecure, but Skye wanted a happy ending so I restrained myself from writing it up in here.


End file.
